The King's Rider
by Whilom
Summary: A slave in Galbatorix's court reflects on the state of the king's Dragon Rider.


**Disclaimer: **Paolini's work, not mine. Oh, Ailis _is_ mine.

**A/N:** I'm not sure if I should continue this or not, i.e. make it a story or leave it a one shot. Also, should Ailis be a romantic attachment (or are we sick of those yet?) or just a friend? That is, if I decide to continue it.

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The room was opulent, certainly, but sparsely furnished with dull colors that did little to lift the dark atmosphere given by the stone walls and floor. It was still more of a cell than anything else, but the girl had been told it was far richer than the cell the Rider had been placed in before.

Ailis had only seen him once or twice before, always grim-faced and stiff as though he was carrying a heavy load on his shoulders or had just been beaten. She didn't doubt that both were possible. Days after the Rider had been moved to his new quarters she found herself outside the heavy door to clean. It wasn't a hard job—no rugs to beat, little dust to wipe, and no people to clean around or bow and scrape to. In fact she had never actually seen the Rider in his rooms—until now.

He was standing before his window, but the gentle breeze that was wafting outside couldn't reach his room because of the huge piece of glass that sat in front of the window as though to frame a picture. She would have to unlock it and open it to air out the dark room after he had gone. Galbatorix had strict orders about the keeping of his Rider.

The Rider in question was clad in black as was his wont, his leggings of the finest leather, his tunic of the finest weave. Yet there was no adornment on his person to hint at the princely status Galbatorix's people held him in. He insisted on only a slight bow in his presence, not the elaborate show usually made, and spoke civilly to the servants when he spoke at all. He seemed to dwell for the most part in another world, sheltered in the tattered remains of his memories.

A noise, rich and not unpleasant, broke the silence. It was a moment before she realized it was the Rider's voice.

"How do you see me?"

Ailis paused in her work, looking with some trepidation at his back. He was facing the sheet of glass still but she could see that he was looking at his reflection in it with distaste.

"What kind of a question is that to be asked at this time?" she responded lightly. "Word has it that my lord king has sent you on an important mission." She paused, then continued quietly, "You should be happy."

"Tell me. You needn't fear for your safety." His voice was deep and commanding, but held a softness that told her he hadn't ignored her statement because he hated her.

"My lord searches your mind daily," she hedged, keeping a close watch on his reaction.

The Rider visibly stiffened. "I can guard some of my thoughts. Parts of my mind Galbatorix has not yet broken into."

_Yet._

She ignored his casual reference to the king and said haltingly, "You do nothing worse than do millions of others, my lord."

"But am I doing anything better?" he asked quietly. "I am a Rider. I must live up to that."

Ailis was surprised at his desire to live up to the heritage he had been so recently given. It seemed that he had many things to live up to and try to live for or against, extra duties pressing against his everyday, lifelong struggle to merely live. From what she heard this Rider had been cursed with inheritance after inheritance all his life. Murtagh, the son of Morzan, was expected to follow in his father's steps, take on Galbatorix as his lord and king, and obey the Rider's legacy, all at once. The task would be impossible for anyone less. But it seemed that Murtagh the Rider would succeed in at least one.

He said nothing else and minutes later a pair of guards came to escort him to his training session with the king's magicians. He hadn't yet earned the privilege of training with Galbatorix himself but seemed to be progressing quickly under others' tutelage. Ailis didn't doubt that soon Galbatorix would take his Rider directly under his wing—an honor to be sure, but one the slave girl didn't doubt the Rider would gladly relinquish. He seemed to hate the king and even himself at times, particularly after certain training sessions. Magic in particular irked him. He would struggle to control his temper this evening, Ailis figured as she finished her work and surveyed the room with a glance to make sure everything was in its place.

It seemed that it was. Just as Galbatorix liked it.

Ailis thought that the Rider would be someone who took responsibility for his things even without Galbatorix's rigid rules for Spartan cleanliness, but she noticed that every time she came back to this room she would see a picture tilted just a bit too far, or the curtains to the bed tied roughly back. Little things that showed someone did indeed live in the room, but also things that would normally never be moved, such as the heavy iron lamp stand that had appeared in a different corner last week. Apparently the Rider liked to control what he could. She imagined that between his rigorous training and the king's probing, there was little in Murtagh's life that could be said to be his own. He changing his room was a release after living under constant scrutiny, a reminder that he wasn't completely a slave.

Her eyes caught on the large sheet of glass. A handprint was just barely visible on its smooth surface. She moved to clean it with her rag but then stopped, the cloth clenched tightly in her hand. Abruptly she spun on her heel and left the room. If he wanted his handprint there, then so be it. If he needed it there to keep going, to keep his sanity, to keep himself, then she wouldn't interfere.

It was difficult enough to be Galbatorix's slave. It would be mind-breaking to be his Rider.


End file.
